Words are like beads on a chain
Alone they can’t take any strain.
But joined up in gold
A sentence we mould
A prayer is repeated again.
Words cluster in beautiful groups
Waiting for writers to stoop.
Then instead of one word
A sentence is heard,
Some call this poetry soup.
Professors do not create any words,
Which from the unconscious are lured
They only critique
What you and I speak.
After conversing and writing, they’re third.